


She’s Living There Still

by MiriamKenneath



Category: Love Is a Camera - Sophie Ellis-Bextor (Music Video)
Genre: Captivity, Dark, F/F, Immortality, Seduction, Sex Magic, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 17:34:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20661077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiriamKenneath/pseuds/MiriamKenneath
Summary: They say that having your picture taken will steal your soul. I thought the warnings were silly.





	She’s Living There Still

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Visardist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Visardist/gifts).

They say that having your picture taken will steal your soul. I thought the warnings were silly.

I was a vain and frivolous young woman. I wanted my image immortalised.

The witch lived in a house on the hill. She wore the black of a grieving widow, and beneath her lacy veil, she was beautiful. Her cheekbones were high; her skin was as smooth and pale as milk. Her hands smelled of roses.

Those hands were graceful and strong where they touched me, the fingers long and tapered and tipped with nails carefully trimmed down to elegant crescent moons. I whimpered when those fingers teased open my tender folds, and when they plunged deep inside, I moaned.

‘Do you love me?’ the witch asked.

‘I – pardon?’ I didn’t understand the question. We’d practically just met. How could I love her?

The witch breathed strange, guttural words into my ear. A black magic spell, perhaps? I did not care, for by then she was pleasuring me in places I hadn’t known existed, stretching spongey inner walls, stroking even up to the mound guarding the entrance to my womb. I bent my knees, spread my thighs wide for her and thrust my hips into the heel of her hand where it rested against a button of swollen, sensitive flesh.

Something urgent and sweet was building fast in my belly, and I knew I should stop before I let it get too far, but I couldn’t stop – I didn’t _want_ to stop –

‘Yes, like this,’ I pleaded, ‘Take the picture of me now, like this, _just like this_ – ’

The witch hadn’t even put the film in her camera yet. Why hadn’t she prepared this in advance?

‘Do you love me?’ she asked again.

I realised I did; she had _made_ me love her. No man could impart such raw, exquisite sensations upon a woman. Only another woman could do that, and in this moment, when we were so close, when _I_ was so close, I swear I loved her as much as I loved myself. _She even looked like me. _‘I – yes, I do, I love you, I adore you – more – oh God, please, more – !’

‘Love is a camera,’ the witched murmured into my mouth as she kissed me and I began to spend against her hand.

My muscles locked; I froze in the throes of transcendent ecstasy. Time stood still. It would stand still forevermore.

So in the end I got what I wanted, sort of. The witch has made me immortal, and I am a picture in black and white hanging on her wall, a portrait of a vain and frivolous young woman. I am a still life ensorcelled within a gilt frame. _I am a prisoner._ For as long as the witch lives, my soul will be but one of many bound by love to her.

Run, run away from the house on the hill. The witch, you see? She’s living there still.


End file.
